We Were Kings
by WeatherWatch
Summary: "We were all kings once; now, I'm Terry Boot – a man and a wizard. Who are you?"


**Disclaimer:**** Not mine, never will be, though I did have a dream that the Deathly Hallows came out again, and Marcus Flint was Ginny's bestie and threw the Quidditch-Game-Without-Brooms so it was two all in the best of five competition, but then Harry came home and he and Gin-bangers left to go make-out. =D**

**When We Were Kings**

For days before, up until the early hours of the morning of the service, thousands of witches and wizards had been arriving in London. The Remembrance Ceremony would be written into history, and to be present would be both empowering and traumatising in the after effects of the Second War.

Almost all of the remaining Hogwarts students who had fought – fourth through seventh years – were in attendance, some still in wheelchairs and magical casts; scars which suggested suffering that should never be felt by anybody, let alone those as young as the current bearers.

It was a solemn event and, perhaps out of respect, the majority had chosen to wear a sombre, formal uniform of black. It was as if the funerals were being held all over again; a reminder both from the dress and the freely shed tears of loss.

Half-hidden in the shadows in the corner – obstructed further by the deep crimson drapes that fell over the window – stood a tall, frail looking figure whose white blond hair gave the impression of an angelic figure.

He wasn't so very old, but his demeanour was of one defeated, and without the will to fight those who so carelessly condemned him due to the wilful, childish actions of his past. A misplaced childhood had wrought destruction upon his life and, as a man, he was suffering the repercussions of his parent's mistakes.

By the end of the ceremony he was pressed so violently against the wall – as if trying to disappear into it – that his posture was deformed.

The final comment from the man making the speech called upon members of the suffering family members and friends to place miniscule, lit tea candles on the small, raised steps in front of the memorial.

It was, hauntingly, headed by a bronze plate that read, in curling, majestic letters: _Justice for Innocence_.

There had been a general uproar when it was revealed that the memorial would be inscribed not only with names of those who died for the Light, but also the Dark.

Surprisingly, or not surprisingly, it was Granger who had stood proud and silenced the public outcry. She had vehemently expressed that Innocence was a broad term, and that it didn't matter when that Innocence had been stolen, or how it had occurred, it was still the loss of Innocence.

The rage had been somewhat compressed by this, but it hadn't done anything to stop the slyly sent spells, or Howlers, or the physical and psychological abuse.

The blond moved forward, his own candles of respect levitated in front of him. He ignored the whispered jibes and cruel words of those around and continued on his way, trying to overlook the angry, disgusted and downright vicious expressions on the sea of faces around him who didn't want him there, nor the remembrance of those he was representing.

He was knocked twice on purpose, and almost tripped once by a fierce old witch, as he placed the candles down – one for Vincent Crabbe; one for his Aunt Bella; one for Uncle Rodolphus. Ironically, it was Potter who placed the candle for Tom Riddle, next to Dumbledore's own flame, on the top step, looking down on the living.

When each candle had been lit and lain, the mourners moved back in reverence and bowed their heads for a minute of silent remembrance and respect and reflection.

As they slowly began to leave, the crowd jostled him and jeered as the passed, uncaring as to his own grief; Vincent Crabbe had been his friend for nigh seventeen years, and his death had been indirectly caused by Draco's own uneducated regurgitation of his parents' beliefs. Of course, Vince's own father was influential as well, but it was Draco who he learned from, and watched over the years.

Soon, the room was practically empty, the candles flickering creepily in the dim light. They wouldn't ever burn out – a lasting reminder of The War.

Quiet footsteps sounded behind him, and the paranoia cultivated by the animosity of others caused him to turn around, eyes wide in apprehension.

What greeted was a sight he was unused to these days.

A tall, broad shouldered man with dark brown hair and sporadic blue streaks smiled at him, no malice at all in the action. Beside him stood a short blonde girl – woman, really – who repeated the action and then reached out a hand and squeezed the exhausted-looking man's shoulder before exiting the hall.

The blond man watched her go, a smile not reaching his own features yet, though any unease had vanished with the last of the crowd.

"It's a far cry from how we thought things would be in first year." The darker haired man commented quietly, his gazing wandering over the memorial.

The blond nodded shakily. Indeed it was; power, wealth, status, everything he had so naively assumed was his in the natural course of things was out of his grasp, and what made things more real was the knowledge that, deep down, he knew he'd never deserved it anyway.

"We thought we were each the king of our little worlds," the man continued, his rich voice not getting any louder, though it seemed as such to the blond listening to him. "We thought we'd have all we ever wanted, or needed… but it wasn't to be."

The blond fidgeted, not quite uncomfortable under the eyes of his former schoolmate, but feeling transparent before him.

"And now we're wiser to the real world – the time for animosity is in the past."

The Ravenclaw stretched his hand out to the Slytherin, who felt his own arm reach out to clasp it in return.

"We were all kings once; now, I'm Terry Boot – a man and a wizard. Who are you?"

The blond attempted a smile as he looked into the other man's bright, intelligent eyes. He knew what he had to say; he knew now who he was.

"Draco Malfoy – also a man and a wizard."

Terry shook his hand firmly and smiled, before breaking the atmosphere of the moment just passed.

"Lisa and I are going for a coffee out in muggle London, away from the eyes of the press and morbid reminiscing. You're welcome to join us."

Draco released a true smile this time, just as Lisa glided gracefully back into the hallway, a jacket on folded over her arm.

She glanced at the two men, her lip quirking in the corner, before Side-Apparating all three of them to an alleyway by a pretty muggle café that she frequented during her breaks.

Lisa Turpin was a muggleborn.

Draco felt a spark of life in his chest as the two former classmates spoke of everyday topics, and conversed with him as if he were an old friend, or a new acquaintance in which one has found a unique bond in a very little space of time.

Their personal kingdoms may have fallen apart, but it would be camaraderie that would be their saviour, regardless of blood.

"Thank you," he said quietly, looking them both in the eye in turn, before dropping his gaze to his lap.

**Naw… Title doesn't quite fit, but the story morphed as I wrote it down… and I like the title too much to change it now. **

**Read & Review like Responsible Reviewer!**


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